wild*life

Tonight marked our final baseball party in a series of 54 events spanning four months.  Signing-up for baseball is essentially taking on a second, part-time job.  Even when you consider that there is no mandatory San Luis Snack Shack Duty.

Nate’s Team, Cal Poly Red, celebrated the end of the season tonight with a game of kids versus parents, followed by a round of kickball and a water balloon fight.  I don’t know when I’ve laughed so much.

Unfortunately Jacob’s team, the Hooks, got knocked out of the playoffs by the Grasshoppers last weekend.  Jakey enjoyed the season and got on base most times he was at bat.  His strength is speed.  He had his team calling him Bob the entire season… but that’s a story for another blog.

It was probably for the best as all of us, except Nate, were a bit worn-out from baseball four nights a week.  Nate is still up for hours of catch and practicing his swing on the baseball tetherball practice pole.  This week we found out Grandma never learned to use a mitt.  And she’s not about to start now…

There was one game at Sinsheimer where I shivered on the sidelines, right through the dinner hour, famished from a light lunch and what seemed to be an interminable number of innings.

Two other families with impeccable foresight and enviable planning laid out a beautiful, fluffy picnic blanket.  There were chips, salsa and guacamole as the first course.  Then, then they unveiled a lovingly wrapped basket of piping hot taquitos.  I don’t know what was served as the third course, I had to get up and move behind the other team’s dugout to escape the mouth-watering torture…

At that moment I actually missed the Snack Shack.  In a moment of ravenous weakness, I almost regretted writing Nacho Cheese, The Shack, Keeping Kosher, Dirty Jobs, and Home Stretch.  An entire body of work criticizing plasticized dairy.  Years of lamenting my Saturdays hocking inedible junk food and, in an instant, my food snobbery evaporated and I would have emptied my wallet for a paper boat of salty, stale chips and orange cheese…

Nate the Great received his trophy today with great pride and an admirable solemnity during Coach Matthew’s team speech.  He was recognized for his two home runs and gained a reputation as a big hitter.  There’s definitely a little spring in his step.  I’m just bummed we missed his second homer while we were out of town for our anniversary weekend.

I’m told it was so exciting, he passed his teammate at second before rounding third and bringing it home.  That’s my boy.

This Sunday I had such a special Mother’s Day.  I actually slept past 5:45am… probably because Saturday’s combination of baseball plus birthday party bounce house plus beach with besties equaled beat for everybody.  I awoke to a perfect cup of tea in bed while the boys made me a beautiful bowl of yogurt and berries.  Then I was showered with presents.  Ice cream shaped bath bombs to use in the new barn bathtub, a travel mug, and an array of talking, whirling, buzzing cards that instilled endless anticipation and giggles from the boys.  Mysteriously, a few days prior, Jacob had plied me with information on how to give a foot massage.  One of the cards had an exciting mechanical wonder with a circus announcer’s voice— as I opened it, the wheel would spin, landing on all sorts of “mom” gifts like back rubs and breakfast in bed.  Somehow I got all the prizes.

Jacob made me a special clay caterpillar that holds a little portrait of his smiling second grade face.  It has a circle that says “feel better” to represent the “hole in our family from Daddy’s sickness.”  The caterpillar has an unidentifiable little friend with feet stuck to it because he had extra time.  Nate made a little ceramic heart box that he gave me at Friday’s Dia de la Familia.  It was a surprise lunchtime celebration where the kids sang songs in Spanish, served us cinnamon cake, strawberries and lemonade, and then walked us each through their best art and a heartfelt letter.  Jakey also made me a little bouquet of flowers from the yard and put them by my alarm clock.

If that wasn’t enough, we walked the Bob Jones trail while the boys rode their bikes, enjoyed some beautiful coffee at the new shop in Avila, and then had lunch at Rooster Creek with the best service I’ve experienced in over a year.  That afternoon I got to take a nap, look at my iPad, and spend an hour visiting one of my favorite little shops downtown…

The day ended with a tasty dinner, chocolate-covered strawberries and a relaxing bath.

I tried not to think about Chicken Nugget as the last occupant of our tub… we’re now pretty sure she’s not dying and she’s just broody.

After a day like Sunday, it’s no wonder she wants to be a mommy.  There’s really nothing better.

Chickens.  We go way back.

It started when I was six or seven and my dad took my brother and me on one of the greatest adventures of our childhood— a multi-week road trip in an unreliable pea-green VW camper van, all the way to visit his cousin’s family on Whidbey Island.  They had this fantastic county fair where the main attraction involved a full-sized arena where various farm animals were freed to run around in sheer panic.  Kids then lined-up by age and were time-released into the arena to chase the panicked farm animals.  The objective?: You catch it, you keep it.  Unfortunately, the littlest kids got first dibs at the biggest animals… the lambs and the goats and the bunnies.  My brother didn’t like to get his hands dirty, so by the time I joined him, all that remained was poultry.

I grabbed a little black Bantam with a showy headdress, a gentle duck, and a handsome, intimidating red rooster later anointed Chanticleer.  We camped all the way back to California with our poultry barnyard and a tiny white feral kitten I coaxed out of the rafters of the barn.

From that trip forward, I spent many a day taking care of chickens.  My favorite memory was when my brother and I thought it would be fun to throw some of the eggs against a tree.  Geoff veered from the tree and threw his next egg against the chicken wire, only to have it sort of bounce back at him and splatter his face and chest.  As luck would have it, that one was rotten.

So when Granddad brought us three chickens and a little coop to start our own flock, I had some experience to fall back on.  On our first weekday morning of chicken ownership, I found myself dressed for work, summoning my previous confidence in poultry seizure and grabbing Death Destroyer and depositing her back in her quarters.

By the way, our new flock consists of a beautiful Buff Orpington named Chicken Nugget, a black and white speckled hen named Chicken Sando, and a black Orpington whose feathers shine like an oily rainbow.  Nate aptly coined her Death Destroyer.

My mornings now consist of drinking my tea, making breakfast and lunches, and letting the chickens out like a flock of puppies.  They are impatient and clumsy and endearingly friendly.  Jacob has been taming them every morning while Nate mostly watches.

Yesterday evening, Jake sounded the alarm bells— something is wrong with Nugget.  She won’t leave her nest and when he puts her on the ground, she falls down.  She couldn’t walk, her tail was down and she was hobbling right back into the nesting box.  I went to sleep deeply anxious about poor little Chicken Nugget.  She’s our sweetest, gentlest hen.

When I woke-up this morning she didn’t clamor out of the coop.  At 6:30am I’m googling what to do about an egg bound hen and it involves soaking her in our bathtub.  I wait until the Chicken Whisperer wakes-up and Jacob and I get little Nugget upstairs into a warm tub.  I don’t have Epsom salts.  I sure hope this works as despite my years of chicken husbandry, I’m not really ready for the internet recommendation involving KY Jelly…

Nugget stays pretty calm.  She only jumps out of the tub twice— a blur of wet chicken flapping.  The warm water is supposed to relax her, but I’m concerned that being surrounded by plastic dragons and a seven-year-old with quick, unpredictable movements is just tensing her up even more… after about twenty minutes we get her back outside, perk her up with her favorite chicken crack cocaine, meal worms, and she hobbles back into the coop.  I head to work, but am plagued by a dull undercurrent of imminent chicken danger all day.

I arrive home this evening and Jacob declares her better.  He brings up two eggs and says Chicken Nugget ran down the hill to be with her girlfriends.  I check and it’s true.  What a relief!  I’m sure she’d agree.  We’ve gotta keep a close eye on her, but I think we’re all sleeping better tonight…

Meanwhile when I asked the boys if they wanted hot lunch at school today they were adamant.  Some sick, ironic twist of fate— today was chicken nugget and mashed potato day.

Absolutely not.

My dearest Jacob James,

You turned 8 years old on March fourteenth and are a smart, funny, industrious, resourceful, feisty eight-year-old.  The past eight years are truly brimming with Jacob stories— you’ve gone from three to eight in a heartbeat.  My sincerest apologies that your annual letter is six weeks delayed.  And your birthday party was a month behind schedule.  Maybe we’ve had a lot going on for the past five months.  Or maybe I just don’t want you getting any older…  In my annual tradition, this letter is meant to capture and preserve just a little glimpse into eight-year-old Jake.

Over the past few months, you’ve settled into life in San Luis.  I’m sure you still miss Truman (and Gavin and Stuart), but you haven’t dissolved into a “whhhhhy did we moooove heeeeere” puddle in several months.  Although you have such fond memories of Trace, I don’t really remember any mornings where you didn’t want to go to school this year.  In the mornings, you help me drop Nate off at his classroom where you’re greeted by your five-year-old fan club— especially Kai and Cruz.  You basque in their little boy adoration.

And speaking of little boys… you like to hang with Ethan and Evan and Logan.  You have a number of other friends but you don’t always know their names.  You’re still one of those kids that walks across the blacktop and about town and boys of roughly the same height smile and wave and give you a “Hi Jacob.”  You give them the ‘sup head nod and, when prodded for names, just smile and shrug.

On the topic of friends, we recently held your joint birthday party at an enormous gymnastics gymnasium with ten other rambunctious youngsters.  You were thrilled to see Russel— your buddy from Y Camp.  After months of sleuthing, I was able to track down one of your favorite second graders through a google search and a friend from high school.  This is most certainly a small town.  The second you saw him the entire crowd launched into a rendition of “My name is Joe, I live in Costcoooo…”  Such a heartfelt reunion.

We spent that afternoon watching you all jump and tumble and bounce through a “parkour” course created and led by two young coaches: Ashley and Mark.  Mark dazzled you all with his flips and spins and skateboardy vibe.  He couldn’t have been more perfect.  Some barbecue ribs, lemonade and chocolate cupcakes and you buzzed, flipped and tumbled all the way back to our house where you and your brother dove into gift bags and detonated a Lego explosion.

Half our living room is dedicated to Jake’s Lego Land.  You set-up acres of miniature worlds with vehicles and headless guys and wars on every level— tabletops, chairs, floors, shelves brimming with Lego landmines.  No, literally.  You take the little button Legos and tell me they’re landmines.  I recently found a slightly threatening note you wrote to the cleaning team warning them not to touch your Legos.  The “skull and cross bones” was especially effective.

You got a giant bag of army guys at Supercuts last week and created a new game.  It’s like Harry Potter wizarding chess.  All I know is that the rules are always changing and my guys’ weapons are clearly short-range whereas your guys can leap onto boxes, blast me and then take cover.  I hate to admit it, but your machine-gun sound effects are rather impressive.  My guys are just sitting ducks.

And while we’re talking fowl, you are the family Chicken Whisperer.  Granddad brought us three “trial chickens” and you have risen to your new responsibilities like the mini-Granddad that you are.  You’ve been wearing my Hunter boots as you check on them every chance you get.  Your chicken training regimen has really made a difference.  Chicken Nugget, Chicken Sando and Death Destroyer are like a flock of feathered puppies.

Speaking of pets, you’re not a teacher’s pet, but I can tell Maestra Koch has a special fondness for you.  She is the opposite of last year’s Maestra Gonzales.  Where Gonzales was short and loud and always barking orders, Koch is tall and soft-spoken.  You’re one of only two native English speakers in your class and you’ve risen to the challenge like a champ.  You love math and science and recreo.  I’m not sure I’ve ever felt prouder than our two parent-teacher conferences this year.

While we’re talking teachers, you idolize your substitute teacher, Mr. Santos.  We spent an afternoon searching for his rock shop and found it by my work.  You strode confidently into his shop, ready to receive your free prize as a proud Pacheco Panther.  When we went into the back to meet Mr. Santos in person, we immediately knew each other.  It took a few minutes, but we finally placed ourselves as cast members during my freshman year in Cal Poly’s acclaimed big stage performance of Neil Simon’s Fools.  Mr. Santos had Jacobo’s number right away— recognizing the path to your devoted loyalty was laid with rock knowledge and prizes.  He nonchalantly let you hold his several thousand dollar Megalodon tooth.

Which reminds me, you are still mega into Pokémon, Minecraft and video games.  Maestra Koch and Mr. Guardado probably think you play video games all day given how much you write about them.  Hopefully they recognize the majority of your writing as fantasy.

And you still have a fantastical imagination.  This past year we’ve spent hours upon hours together in the wonderful wizarding world of Harry Potter.  We both are so sad it is over.  We read How to Eat Fried Worms, but it wasn’t as good as I remembered.  And we read every single Calvin and Hobbes collection.  Even though the majority of its nuanced humor went over your head, it inspired a renewed interest in outdoor adventures and snowmen.  You’re now re-reading it on the couch at night when I go to bed.

You’re still having a tough time getting to sleep at night, but it’s getting better every night that Daddy’s home.  You may always be a stealthy night ninja… priding yourself in your cat-like ability to sneak up on unsuspecting prey watching subtitled episodes of the Americans.  You have always been busy.  Busy with the world of things you want to build and see and do.

You are generally bare chested and barefoot.  You are all elbows and big front teeth and freckles and ripped knees.  You give me “back hugs” at school and squirm from my air kisses.  You’re known for your affinity for jokes involving plays on words.  I’d say you deserve all the credit for tapping your little Cousin Devon’s interests in stand-up comedy.

I can’t wait to watch you continue to grow and learn and become exactly who you already are.  I love you Jakey Cakes.  Every little funny, stubborn bit of you.  We are so proud of you and are doing our best to savor every single second.

Love,
Mom

My sweet sweet Nate,

You turned 6 years old on March first and are a strong, smart, sweet and sassy, Spanish-speaking six-year-old.  The past six years have gone much too fast.  For all the lamentations of the terrible twos, the tantrumy threes, the feisty fours, the effing fives and now, the sassy sixes… we are loving every, single, second.  In my annual tradition, this letter is meant to capture and preserve just a little bit of six-year-old Nate.

Over the past six months, you’ve settled into life at the “mountain house” with little angst and a solid Kindergarten fan club.  Every morning when I drop you off at Maestra Irion’s class, you’re greeted by a spirited, schoolmate swarm: Kai, Jackson, Eddie and Cruz.  Kai is your best buddy and very outgoing.  He was recently apprehended by the police during a solo stunt asking strangers for money in the park behind his house.  Jackson is all smiles and hugs.  He’s group bodyguard.  Eddie invited you to his birthday party where he had a pool, cupcakes, a trampoline, and a car-racing ramp… and firmly established his position as sovereign of Little Boy Paradise.  And Cruz is cool.  How could you not be with a name like Cruz and surfer hair?

Speaking of cool, a few weeks ago, you woke-up one morning and decided you were going to take a spin without training wheels.  And you did.  You rode all the way to the beach that day like it was no big deal.  You got a big bike for your birthday and a Pokémon wallet and a Pokémon hat and you were happy as a Clamperl… of course that’s a reference to the Clam Pokémon.  I didn’t even know there was a Clam Pokémon but of course you do…  You dig Minecraft and Legos and Super Mario and Star Wars and forbidden curses.  Tonight I asked you what you want to achieve most in the world and you said “Infiniti Pokémon.”  Your laughter while playing Pie Face is deliriously euphoric.

And when it comes to laughter, nothing is funnier to you than potty talk.  You’re a connoisseur.  And now in both English and Spanish.  Only six months and you’ve achieved fluency in your primary language in your tertiary language… impressive.  You’ve completely embraced your Spanish-speaking self and are reading like a champ, recently winning an award for being a “Super Lector” (Super Reader).  You’ve conquered Level C.  Maestra Irion tells me you have a natural talent for language and that maybe you got it from me… maybe you did?  I’m sure I’d like to think so.  You’re constantly asking me things in Spanish and counting and singing and requesting “Mas cereal por favor.”  Last night you initiated the construction of an entire Lego boat for at least an hour and a half, completely in Spanish.  It was the perfect exercise for shapes and colors and positions, and was fascinating to watch your little gears turn.

While we’re on the topic of gears turning, baseball is in full swing and you are the model little leaguer.  You are excited and attentive and have a swing that even I can tell is good.  You want to play catch all the time and you never resist practice.  Last week you made two catches and two outs at first base.  You were last to bat and hit a real doozy.  Luckily you didn’t notice that the last batter gets to run all the bases.  You were so proud of your home run.  I’m sure it would have been a homer regardless.

And while we’re talking home runs… sometime between June and December you learned how to swim.  For real.  Not just instructor-led swimming, but you’re now playing in the deep end and doing cannonballs.  Just this past June you wouldn’t leave the steps.  Seriously.  Land Rover is long gone and now you beg to go swimming.

Beyond swimming, your survival skills continue to include a diet primarily consisting of oranges, fruit twists and Honey Nut Cheerios.  You ordered ribs and chocolate cake for your birthday, but your favorites are hamburgers and chocolate fondue.  You still use your clothes as napkins and perch on your chair like a bird, or a monkey, or a frog.  Your outfit of choice is matching fluorescent athleisure wear.  Your teacher tells Daddy, “Nate nunca frio.”  You appear to be impervious to cold.

And despite the cold, your two grown-up bottom front teeth never chatter.  You like picture books and science and math and are on the fence about being a fireman or a policeman when you grow-up.  You’re responsibly contemplating the risks and dangers of death by robbers or fire.  Oh, and you also want to be an artist.

You are artistically inclined toward creating special nicknames for everyone.  You’re still Jakey’s most loyal sidekick and you call him Jake Jake.  Dad is Dada.  I’m Mamacita, which the urban dictionary defines as a “really hot babe.”  I have no objections.

And speaking of babes, you’ve recently stopped talking and singing about the fictitious “Mrs. Doonay.”  We don’t know where she came from and now, she’s seems to have gone about her merry way.  You’ve grown-out of Mrs. Doonay, but you still love your baybit, and crawl into my lap at the breakfast table, and want to ‘nuggle every night.

I love you Baby Nake, exactly the way you are.  Every little sweet and sassy bit of you.  We are so proud of you and are doing our best to savor every single second.

Love,
Mamacita